


Heaven Spot

by Blucifer



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Graffiti, Grungy fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Mischief AU, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Stray Kids are a Graffiti Crew AU, gratuitous use of graffiti slang, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blucifer/pseuds/Blucifer
Summary: Inspired by Chan and Changbin’s Mischief stage.Chan asks him, “do you know what they call a place like this? A heaven spot, because it’s so hard to get to. Like heaven.”Changbin responds, “yeah, and if either of us fell off of it, we’d be dead and locked out of those pearly gates.”
Relationships: Bang Chan/Seo Changbin
Comments: 30
Kudos: 128





	Heaven Spot

  
  


“Ah, Channie, it’s so heavy.” His usually gravelly voice unravels, takes on a higher pitched, whiney timbre. The knapsack on his back is filled to the brim, because when Chan told him to bring everything, he took it to heart: half empty cans, rollers, stencils. As if on cue, to really bolster his sense of dignity, he rolls his ankle on a tree root. 

Panic sets in, as does the frenzied attempt to regain balance, but the fall never comes. Chan catches him easily, one arm around his waist,  _ under  _ his unzipped jacket but  _ over  _ his t-shirt.  _ Wrong  _ doesn’t even begin to describe how it feels. 

“Careful now,” Chan laughs. 

Chan swats his ass playfully when he finally lets him go. Chan’s touch makes him feel the same way that red and blue flashing lights do. Terrified. 

“If I fall and die, I’ll kill you.” 

“Okay,” Chan responds. His tone is even, as if he accepts what Changbin says as fact. 

Changbin’s wanted that for so long, for Chan to take what he says at face value, but he kind of thinks of it in the same way that he  _ wants  _ a mansion with a swimming pool and a real life, working Gundam mech suit. It would be cool, but he’s never gonna get it. So he swims laps at the gym and teases Han for all his Gunpla models while posing them into new and epic battle scenes. 

Now that Chan’s finally doing it, it’s for a wholly empty threat. Which means he interprets other things that Changbin says, “ _ shut up or I’ll have to kiss you, it’s a date then, he’s with me”  _ as empty threats too. 

“It’s going to be worth it, though. I promise.” 

“Better be,” Changbin mumbles under his breath. He’s not sure how long they’ve been walking. All he knows is that Chan pulled him out at Suncheon Station and weaved them in and out of the city streets, seemingly without logic or reason. The light pollution is dimmed here as they leave commercial areas for quieter and darker parts of the city. He feels like an intruder, even though his (current) greatest crime is walking down the sidewalk. The concrete cracks, buckles, and heaves as the city crumbles beneath them. On and on they march, until they hit an industrial park which fades away into woods. 

They walk through that wooded area until they come to a cavernous, but shallow riverbed with steep embankments on each side. “Where are we going?” 

Chan looks downward and points to the riverbed below. 

Changbin’s sneakers get stuck in the mud, and Chan has to backtrack and pull him out. Arms loop around his body and pick him and his jam packed knapsack up like he’s nothing at all. 

Dignity? Never heard of her. 

Chan pushes back tree branches, and tells him what to look out for. “The rocks ahead are uneven.” After he trips for the third or fourth time, Chan grabs his hand to steady him and doesn’t let go. 

“How the hell did you even find this place?” 

Chan answers matter-of-factly, “third wheeling one of Han and Minho’s UFO watch parties.” 

He’s whining again. He hates himself for it, but he desperately wants the sound of something, to drown out the pounding of his heart in his ears. “Hey, in the future? Don’t take date ideas from those two.” 

Chan doesn’t respond, and maybe that’s for the best. 

Chan pulls them into a clearing, and Changbin simply  _ knows  _ this is the place. By the light of the setting sun, he can see a bridge over which no cars, trains, or humans travel. Changbin studies the bridge carefully, because it’s going to be dark soon and they’ll have to work under the cover of darkness. It’s rusted out and fallen into a state of disrepair. Caution tape and fences section it off, and condemnation gives them a perfect canvas.

“We gonna bomb it?” Changbin asks. 

“Of course,” Chan responds. 

Changbin tries to ignore the way that Chan squeezes his hand when he asks. Without another word, they crawl through an impossibly small hole in the chain length fence. Chan leads them to a set of rickety maintenance stairs. They ascend, Changbin in front, Chan protectively blanketing him from the back, and a few dozen cans of paint between them. 

Changbin exits the stairs and pulls Chan up onto the bridge platform. There’s a scramble for headlamps, anchoring their rigs, strapping into their climbing equipment, to jam the correct caps onto the correct color cans. Because the trellises and the bridge’s many beams are useless. It’s kids stuff, covered in crude bubble letters, and the signs of gangs that never make it off the school yard. What they’re after are the archways below, all eight of them ranging in size from taller than either of them, to so small that they’d have to squeeze in on their knees in a line. It’s unspoken, he and Chan will work on the opposite side of the largest, nearest arch, 45 degrees for him, and 45 for Chan. 

There’s not much talking, but Changbin supposes that there never really is when they work. The constant, syncopated sounds of rattle-hiss, rattle-hiss from their cans are the only words exchanged between them. 

When they do, Chan is just a disembodied voice that calls to him, “can you shine over here?” when he needs more light. Changbin is the same for him as they move and grope about in the darkness. 

It’s never a question how much ground they’ll cover, or how much they will complete. Changbin will struggle to chuck his empties back up onto the ledge of the bridge, because, after all, they only have one Earth. His finger will get frozen in position so that the only thing he knows, the only thing he can do, is press down on the cap. Only the rising sun can set them free from the monumental task before them. 

Aerosol slips out of the can in slow dying breaths. Changbin feels dizzy from a dangerous combination of height and paint fumes, and it makes him want to do something crazy. He could tell Chan that he thinks about kissing his dimples and sucking his cock. He could tell Chan that it’s him. It’s always been him, and he’s never wanted anything more. 

If he cannot say it out loud, he wants to say it in paint. Not like the childish tags that he’ll throw on the walls of bus stops at three or four in the morning, Chan standing in front of him to block the view. “Channie” in sloppy cursive inside of a magenta heart. With each pass of his hand, Changbin asks Chan a question. With each curved line and shaded shape, Changbin makes to Chan a confession. With each streak made in error, and curse under his breath, Changbin undermines it all in hopes that Chan either won’t understand or won’t ask what any of it means. 

With every minute that slips by, the sky grows gradually lighter, fading from dark black to a deep navy color. Soon enough pink, and then orange will seep into the blue, making it lighter still. With each change in the sky’s hues, the stars become fainter and the moon shies away.

He’s allergic to daylight, makes his throat close and his skin feel itchy. 

“Chan,” his voice sounds like his fingers and toes feel frozen. The sound of it burns in his throat. “We should—” 

“Just a second. I’m almost—” 

In the faint glow of morning light, Changbin can see Chan now. He’s anchored to a beam in his sling. Brow furrowed, he fights with a rapidly emptying can of blue paint. Changbin can’t take his eyes off of Chan, even as he lets his legs dangle in the sling, rocks back and waits for the feeling of free falling that never comes. 

* * *

The bridge on which they stand now is much different than the bridge they just tagged. There’s no fencing, no jagged rebar. It’s probably still in use to move freight. They sit upon the ledge, unanchored, their legs dangling off the side. It runs parallel to the other bridge. From the edge, if you lean forward, tilt your head just right, you can see down the row of archways on the bridge, including the one that they just tagged. 

“My ass is cold,” Changbin complains. 

“My everything is cold,” Chan responds. 

“It was worth it, though,” Changbin admits. 

Orange sunlight bathes the horizon, bringing life to their artwork. 

Not bad for a night’s work. 

Both crane their heads to see. Changbin usually loves to paint in shades of electric. Radioactive green, sunbeam yellow, and hazard sign orange. Tonight, he abandoned all of that in favor of monochrome. 

“I think I have a shirt that looks like that.” Chan laughs at that. 

Yeah, he’s painted some three wolf moon level bullshit on his side. The only splash of color to be seen are bursts of red across the mouth and the fur of the wolf, fresh from the kill. 

“It’s nice,” Chan continues. 

“I’m biting you,” Changbin goads. Biting is like, stealing someone else’s ideas, their blocking, their color schemes. Chan loves to paint in monochrome with maybe a single pop of color. It’s still Changbin’s own style, his wolves blocky-looking things that look stolen from a Saturday morning cartoon, but the coloring distinctly belongs to another. 

“I’m biting you too, man.” 

“Huh?” 

Chan doesn’t say anything in response. He breathes through his open mouth as if he wishes to taste the crisp morning air. Then, he rises slowly, and pulls Changbin up with him. They walk to the other end of the bridge with not a word between them. 

Similar to before, they sit on the edge, his legs straddling a steel cabal and dangling from the side. Looking at the  _ opposite  _ side, Changbin is almost blinded by the bright colors: vermillion bright enough to anger a steer, neon pink, and belligerent chartreuse take the shape of tropical flowers and birds of paradise. Odd lines change and slice through the petals and leaves. Changbin assumes that there’s words there, but Chan’s wildstyle is good in  _ just  _ how illegible it is.  __

It’s Changbin’s color scheme for sure, but he hardly ever does anything beyond simple lettering. That’s more Chan’s thing. 

“I like yours, too.” 

“Any artist in the city would know who did these.” 

“Would they know well enough to know who did which, though?” 

Chan looks at him with a heaviness that makes the situation feel more serious than it really is. Somewhere in the climb, he scratched his face. A single, angry red line draws diagonal from his temple through his brow. Chan’s had worse before, hell, they both have. But for some reason it really bothers him. Changbin, without really thinking about how he  _ shouldn’t,  _ brushes Chan’s bangs away from his face just to scrutinize the abrasion. 

“Doubt it,” Chan responds finally. “You know what they call spots like this?” 

“A heaven spot,” Changbin says. 

“You know why they call it that?” 

“Not really.” 

Chan slides an arm around his middle and pulls him close. Changbin bristles at the contact. Chan is really good at making  _ everyone  _ feel special. He’s seen it happen  _ so  _ many times in the past. Here’s the thing: when you make everyone feel special, sooner or later, they’re going to realize that it means nothing. “It’s so hard to get to. Like heaven.” 

Changbin’s chest feels tight, his palms burn, it  _ feels  _ a lot like the time he was arrested for the stencils he put out on the sidewalk by his mom’s place. He knew better then and he knows better now. Every time that Chan does it, Changbin still feels that spark of warmth and that glimmer of hope. Changbin extinguishes it every single time, because it means nothing. “Yeah, and if either of us fell off of it, we’d be dead and locked out of those pearly gates.” 

There isn’t a soul out here, let alone a cop, but Changbin knows how to recognize danger. He can feel Chan’s breath on his neck and the shell of his ear. Chan’s presence is too firm and consistent to be unintentional, and too light to convey actual need. He touches Changbin for the sake of touching him. Changbin can’t figure out if it’s to fuck with him, or if he needs to confirm in the morning light that they are truly together. 

The sky shifts from pink to blue-gray. It’s going to be a lovely day, and he’s going to spend most of it sleeping off a night cloaked in darkness. 

Chan knew of this place, coveted and untouched by any other artists in the city. He could’ve taken anyone out here. Someone stronger, who could carry more paint. Someone more skilled, he knows  _ everyone. _ But Chan chose him. 

“I have something like that.” Maybe Changbin’s spent so long looking down his half of the bridge that he never took the time to turn around and look back at Chan’s. “I don’t think it’s a place, though.” 

Chan’s not yet made one attempt to distance himself from Changbin. But it’s pretty cold outside. What if he just wants warmth? Chan keeps looking at his lips, but they’re always dry and sometimes, in a fit of nervousness, he’ll bite at the skin. Maybe he’s looking at Changbin in disgust. Then Chan licks his own lips, but for Changbin, it’s easily explained away. It’s windy and they’re likely chapped. 

“Can you show me?” Chan adds quickly, as if he’s deathly afraid of making a mistake, “if not now, then someday?” 

“Yeah, I can show you.” 

Chan’s arm, the one that isn’t wrapped around Changbin, rests at Chan’s side. Changbin takes Chan’s hand into his own. Once again, there’s no attempt to put distance between them. Changbin traces the lines in Chan’s hand before pressing the pad of his index finger into the palm of his hand. “I know this person. I like him a lot. He’s wanted by a lot of people. I’ve known him for so long, but sometimes I feel like I don’t know him at all. So yeah, I’d say he’s really hard to get to. You’re kind of like my heaven spot, Chan.” 

Even now, Changbin can’t seem to get a good read on his best friend. Chan watches him intently, his mouth is parted slightly. Chan doesn’t yet show emotion, but hangs on the cusp of it. 

Changbin watches it happen in slow motion. Each step in the sequence is sealed into his memory. Chan closing his eyes, Chan nudging the side of his face with his own. The band of Chan’s beanie getting closer and closer, filling in his vision so that there’s nothing but black. His eyes stay open the entire time. 

The kiss is so subtle, just a brush of skin against skin, numbed from the cold, Changbin thinks that it hardly counts as a kiss. But when Chan pulls back, Changbin feels warmed by his expression. Feels wanted. Although it’s nothing like he imagined, it counts a thousand fold. 

That doesn’t stop Changbin from wanting to show him how it’s done. He leans in to Chan. Much to his dismay, Chan pulls back, and it sours his mood immediately. Did Chan not like it? Was it only an experiment? 

“Changbin, close your eyes this time.” 

“I will. Look.” Changbin does as he’s told, but begrudgingly so. There’s a part of him that doesn’t want to miss a thing. But he holds his eyes closed and his body still for a brief moment to show Chan that he’s listened. Then, he balls his fist into Chan’s jacket with one hand and slaps his chest with the other. Their lips touch, brush, and misalign, his lower lip hitting the seam of Chan’s mouth. All the better, he can trace that line with his tongue, deepen it, breathe into the kiss and make Chan shudder into him. 

Chan presses his tongue into Changbin’s mouth, and Changbin pulls back. Apprehension fades into teasing. Something that he could only imagine doing with Chan becomes integrated into their endless pattern of teasing and soothing. 

Chan interrupts the kiss with a laugh, the quick and nervous kind that Changbin has become addicted to over the years. “How the hell am I hard to get to? Changbin, I suggested we paint a married couple together.” 

A married couple, painting two attached train cars in a way that mirrored one another. Suddenly, it dawns on Changbin that maybe that isn’t something that people do together every day, even if they are a part of the same crew. “Oh.” 

Chan could tease him more, it’s what he deserves. Instead, he hits him with more saccharine. Of course, Changbin laps it all up like its caramel macchiato. “I guess maybe you’re my heaven spot too.” 

* * *

He’s always amped after a good night. There’s a special kind of high that comes after making something from nothing. It’s amplified by the whole  _ confessing to the love of his life and it going okay _ thing. He doesn’t even realize how tired he is until Chan pulls him into the elevator to his building, fists his shirt, and pulls him in for another kiss. Not sleepy, but exhausted in every other sense of the word. His mouth feels kiss-bruised. Deep purple marks mottle his neck, he can’t see them, but he can certainly feel them. His knees feel weak, his shoulders tight. 

But Changbin wouldn’t trade that feeling for the world. Not right now. 

“You have paint on your jaw.” Chan cups the underside of his chin and kisses him there. 

“You’re all scratched up.” Changbin touches the scratch on his face, squeezes his hands. 

Boots in the doorframe, jackets thrown over the back of the sofa. Shirts taken off and discarded somewhere between the kitchenette and the alcove leading back to his room. They warm each other up from the cold with searing touches and kisses. 

Chan asks, “do you want to?” 

Everything feels fast and rushed, but that’s how the best pieces are made. They’ve waited for so long, why wait? “Yeah, why not?”

“I just—.” Chan’s expression is so serious, and he’s so shirtless. Changbin’s got him pressed up against his stainless steel refrigerator. It’s the kind of thing that would be sexy and cool, if Chan wasn’t framed by the magnetic poetry set,  _ “fuck life I’m going to clown school”  _ in disjointed letters in the space between his shoulder and the lobe of his ear. “No smash and grabs?” 

When a real criminal runs a smash and grab, they break a store window, grab a bunch of shit that doesn’t belong to them, and try to run away before the cops get there. When a fake criminal—illegal artists and unapologetic fuck boys like him and Chan—run a smash and grab, they meet someone, say a bunch of nice things, get a quick fuck, and then never call. 

Changbin’s brow furrows tight in consideration. He can’t imagine what next Tuesday will be like for him, but he knows that he’d like Chan to be there. “No smash and grabs.” 

It’s surprising, frustrating even, when Chan bypasses the bed entirely and steers them toward the shower. 

“Channie, c’mon, let’s fuck.” He doesn’t care if it sounds desperate. He is. 

“We’re filthy.” 

“Gonna be.” He knows that Chan’s right, though. His hands are covered in paint, they’re both scratched up from hopping chain link fences and getting caught in the brush. The scent of cold weather sweat is heavy on him, the kind that comes from feeling hot but being unable to take his jacket off. 

“No, I mean really—” Chan tugs at the waistband of his jeans, unbuttons and unzips them. Chan drinks in the sight of him naked, his eyes drifting unapologetically lower. 

“Like what you see?” Changbin’s already half hard, just from making out and groping in the elevator. He’s pretty sure Chan’s seen his dick before, but he’s never  _ seen  _ his dick without all the pretenses that men who say they're straight have to put up to get a little peak of some cock. Locker rooms and mooning people for a cheap laugh at parties, they’ve done it all together. There’s a part of him thats insecure, and then there’s a part of him that wonders if it even fucking matters how big his dick is. He kind of loves getting fucked, and he’s pretty sure that his best friend knows that from every raunchy story they’ve ever traded.

“Yeah, but,” Chan traces a line across his stomach and smiles at him mischievously. 

Fuck, he’s got a line of silver paint smeared across his stomach. The dark black hairs of his happy trail are painted too. “Seriously? How?” 

“It’s cute.” 

Cute. Well, that answers  _ one  _ question. “I think you mean  _ ample, _ ” Changbin corrects. “Endowed.” 

Chan pays him no mind, kissing his neck and his collar bones as they wait for the water to warm. 

“Girthy.” Changbin makes himself useful by tugging at Chan’s jeans. He confirms what he thought that he felt through denim. These adjectives are fine to describe him, but they  _ really  _ work for Chan. 

Finally naked, steam curling around their calves, Chan pulls them into the shower. 

Changbin sucks big, possessive marks onto Chan’s neck and collarbones, the kind that will likely show. He wants the world to know that, at least for now, they have each other. 

Chan actually tries to get them clean, but he’s fighting a losing battle. His soapy hands roam over Changbin’s body with a deftness that does nothing to get him off, but does enough to get him clean. Changbin, ever helpful, suds up Chan’s pecs and his ass and very little else. 

“You’re not helping.” 

“Yeah, and I’m about to  _ really _ not help,” Changbin mumbles against Chan’s collarbones. Bitter soap gets into his mouth and he’s spitting and grimacing. God, it must be the sexiest thing ever. If he could just get it together. 

“Oh, that’s sexy, Changbin.” 

“Shut up.” 

“As for not helping, that’s nothing really new.” 

Changbin falls to his knees. Yes, that’s how hopelessly into Chan he is. He’ll risk shower sex water boarding, just to get his cock in his mouth. 

“I can’t believe I wanted this.” 

Tenderly, infuriatingly, Chan interrupts by cupping Changbin’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. Water curls around their bodies in such a way that he has to close his eyes to keep the water out, but he’s kind of, almost grateful. He knows that he’s not strong enough to look Chan dead on when he's got so much want in his eyes. “I did too.” Changbin takes the pad of Chan’s thumb into his mouth, runs his tongue across the pad, closes his lips tight around it. 

It makes Changbin’s chest feel tight. With his eyes closed like this, he can see the flowers Chan painted on concrete on the lids of his eyes. Chan’s always made him feel some type of way, but he’s really not sure how to deal with it now that it's returned. Chan's desire  _ feels  _ antagonistic. The best way he can think of dealing with it? Make him bust faster and harder and better than he ever has before. 

Changbin replaces Chan’s thumb in his mouth with his cock. There’s no tonguing across the head as he did with Chan’s finger. Instead, he takes him to the hilt. 

Normally when he does this, it goes off without a hitch. What did that one guy call him? Anaconda? It's not really about the size of his dick, but because his technique involves practically unhinging his jaw and swallowing everything all at once. Raining shower water makes it difficult and he gags around Chan’s cock. 

“Hey, you good?” Chan’s pulling him off his cock, holding himself at the base to keep him from going too far down, but Changbin wants none of it. He’s not easy, but he is well-practiced and, like his verses and his pieces, he wants to be known for his skill. 

Changbin pulls Chan’s hand away from his own cock and pins his wrist to the wall of the shower. “Never better.”  _ Relax. Pull up. Swirl the tip of his tongue. Go back down. _ He can feel his own throat constrict around Chan. 

“Oh my god,” Chan hisses. 

Of course Chan's reaction goes straight to his dick and his ego. Changbin bobs on his cock like he has something to prove. Whether or not he wants to admit it, he  _ always  _ has something to prove. Waits until the low moans become faster, needier. Waits until his jaw aches with a strange combination of urgency and pride. 

Only then can Changbin look up at Chan. 

With wet hair matted against his face, Chan's eyes flutter shut when the pleasure is too much, and then he forces them back open as if he can't bear to miss a single moment. He looks completely ruined in the best kind of way. 

“I’m gonna cum soon—” 

He wants to hold that moment.

Changbin only pops off his cock long enough to murmur, “want you to.” 

Chan’s free hand tangles into his wet hair and pushes him down on his cock. He’s a sucker for that kind of thing: juvenile hickies, reformed fuckboy lovers, and feeling just a little bit used. Chan checks every single one of those boxes. He lets Chan know just how much he loves with every fucked-out little noise that he makes around Chan's cock as he swallows up his cum.

* * *

“I don’t know how to feel about this.” Chan’s smiling too brightly for just having had peroxide poured on an open wound. “I’m used to the opposite.” 

Changbin’s got Chan seated, ass half on the peach colored Formica counter and half in the Pepto-colored sink. His legs spill down the cabinet, but don’t touch the floor. Chan leans back against the mirror, and the vanity lights glow in a line across his head like an ill-fitting halo. Chan wraps his legs around the joint of his knees, holding him in place.

“I guess it's about time I returned the favor.” Changbin huffs while he dabs a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic across the scratch above Chan’s eye. “Since you patch me up all the time.” Changbin is notoriously clumsy. 

“Remember when you fell off that ledge and sprained your ankle?" 

“You'll never let me forget.” Changbin sighs. Chan insisted that he stay at his apartment for a week and a half while he healed. 

“You didn’t realize I was into you after that?” Chan says it with a playful lilt in his voice, but he swallows thickly. Changbin watches his throat bob. 

Looking back on it,  _ of course _ he should’ve. “Look, I feel like you could probably be here all night pointing out things that I missed.” Changbin goes through the motions of dabbing ointment onto a cotton swab and spreading it across the wound. “What is important is that we both know and understand that I’m irresistible.” There. He sticks a neon-colored bandage on top of the scratch, careful to not get any of the adhesive stuck on Chan’s eyebrow. 

Chan’s still holding on tight, legs wrapped around his knees. There’s nowhere to go, and nowhere he wants to be, other than here. So he rests his arms around Chan’s neck interlacing his fingers at the nape. 

Chan’s looking at his lips again, licking his own. It’s such an obvious tell, that it’s really no surprise when Chan asks him, “I guess so. ‘Cause I kinda wanna kiss you again.” 

“Guess so? Kinda? Nah.” Changbin straight up rejects him, putting his fingers over Chan’s mouth. Even after their shower paint still clings to their fingers, cuticles, and nails. “Chan, I just had your dick in my mouth. You’re not gonna do me like that.” Changbin then takes Chan’s hand into his own, laces their fingers together, raises his arm above his head and presses him into the glass. Gets onto the tip of his toes to press into Chan’s space. Both of them are slow to close the distance, as if this kiss were their very first. Hot breath tickles his lips. 

“I’ll do you however you want.” 

“I hate you.”

The kiss between them builds slowly. Chan slips his tongue between them tentatively, as if he wants to remind Changbin that he’s just as exposed and just as vulnerable. It’s just as new for him. Changbin comes to the frightening and stark realization that, in some ways, it's maybe more new to Chan than it is for him. Because like... Changbin breaks the kiss suddenly. 

“Hey wait uh, have you ever… With a dude before?” 

“Ah—” Chan’s complexion burns red. He suddenly becomes very interested in examining the glass shower door. “You mean before ten minutes ago? Like, what do you think man?” 

Changbin thinks that the last time they talked about fucking, which wasn’t really that long ago. He told Chan about a really unfortunate hookup with a guy on the down low who only had his ex-girlfriend's cucumber melon lotion to use as lube. Chan ended up telling him about the old “leaving a sweater behind so they had a reason to see each other again” trick. Except he was using it on this girl, Jamie, who was “way out of his league.” A real queen with her own crew and year-long runs all around the city. He was never getting that black hoodie back. 

So they’re both kind of lost when it comes down to things like love and fucking and that weird space in between, but right now Changbin’s holding his hand and dragging him through the woods into somewhere new. 

It awakens something inside of Changbin, something that he’s seen before… Something that feels a lot like the time they’d taken the train all the way uptown to hit the walls of this old, condemned building. Some guys from another crew came along and wanted the spot. There was arguing, this one dude took a swing at Chan, and then the next thing he knew, Chan was holding  _ him  _ back. That protective something, well, it scares him.

“Don’t worry. I think that’s cool,” says Changbin. 

“Why would that be cool?” 

“Chan, I paint shit on the sides of condemned buildings and underneath bridges, where some punk who can’t write for shit will tag over it with his name. For someone who so desperately wants to be remembered, I’m really not that good at picking anything permanent. And I’m gonna be the first guy you fuck around with. That’s pretty memorable—”  _ Oh fuck, Seo. Smooth. Real smooth. _ Just cause they’re not gonna smash and grab doesn’t mean that he needs to talk like he’s gonna put a ring on it. “I mean, I still remember the first guy I fucked around with—” 

“No. I get it.” Chan doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t do anything more to assuage Changbin’s fears, but he does slot his mouth over his own, and that’s just as good. 

Changbin wraps his arms around him tighter, presses him close, and lifts him up off the counter. He’s not  _ as  _ strong as Chan, but he hasn’t spent all this time and energy bulking up  _ just  _ to look pretty. Chan tightens his legs around Changbin, moving them around his hips. 

“Heavy! What the hell are you eating—” 

“Changbin, don’t drop me.” 

“Stop moving then—” Slowly but surely, Changbin shuffles them into the bedroom. 

“Ah—” 

“Ooops.” Unceremoniously, he dumps Chan onto the unmade bed. The sheet pops off the corner, exposing shiny pink mattress nylon. Chan’s curtains are drawn, but persistent morning sunlight filters in through the black cloth so that everything looks muted.

Chan palms his cock through black fabric; it was pretty stupid of them to even try to get dressed if they were both gonna get naked again. Growing frustrated, he pulls down the waistband, shedding the name of a designer that they only like because it's expensive. “Well, come on then.” 

It still seems secret, forbidden really, when Changbin sees the tip of Chan’s cock pressed against his stomach. Changbin’s face burns when Chan pulls away the stretchy fabric further to reveal his length, and his sac, drawn tight near his body. 

Finished with his own clothes, Chan pulls at the hem of the shirt that Changbin wears. It’s Chan’s, some t-shirt from an event gone by. When he tugs at the fabric he pulls Changbin down, down, down into the void of the bed. Damn, he’s never been more right. Chan’s kind of like his heaven spot. Once impossible to get to, he’s here, he’s naked, and they’re about to fuck. Once impossible to get to, now that he’s here, he’s got to make sure that he doesn’t lose his footing and plummet downward. If he were to fall, he’d surely pull Chan down with him. 

But Chan is there goading him closer to the edge by pushing at the space just between his shoulders like he wants him to plummet. It’s almost like Chan wants to justify jumping off the ledge after him. 

Changbin collides with hard muscle and smooth skin. Lips on his neck and the lobe of his ear distract from just how quickly Chan undresses him. Continuing his onslaught of sensation and attention, Chan cups his pecs, pushing the flesh together. It’s kind of like—

“God, you’ve got really great tits.” 

“Fuck—ah,” Changbin is interrupted by the feling of Chan’s mouth on his nipple, warm, wet, and greedy. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m serious,” Chan mumbles into his skin as he trails sloppy wet kisses across Changbin’s sternum to do the same on the other side of his chest. Swirl his tongue across chapped skin, nip at him with  _ just  _ enough pressure until the skin is pebbled and hard beneath Chan’s tongue. 

The attention feels nice. Really, it does. He can’t say that he’s used to it at all, but Chan’s playful comparison makes him nervous. When guys that fuck girls fuck him, and they talk to him  _ like that,  _ he gets nervous _.  _ So it’s much easier to bury his fingers in his curls and pull him upward into a kiss than let him talk. Suck on his tongue, bite his lip, and get swept up in the sensation of Chan’s cock rutting against his. 

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Chan stops kissing at him and stops frotting against him, just to hold him still and look at him. It forces Changbin to look into Chan’s pleading brown eyes. “Wanna do something for you too.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah?” 

Changbin thinks it's perfect, or at least that’s what it would be if perfect could be real. “Sorry, I’m just not super used to—.” 

“For real?” 

“Chan, I usually fuck around with guys who aren’t super into the idea of putting a cock in their mouth or anything else.” 

Before Changbin can say anything else, Chan’s kissing him and resting his hand on the most dangerous and most intimate places to touch a person, the curve of his hip. “What do you like?” 

“Anything, literally—” Chan’s insistence makes his ears burn. As much as he likes the idea, he’d already resigned himself to hastily stretching himself out with his own fingers and riding Chan. It’s what he usually does. It’s practiced and comfortable. It’s all drawn out right there on the front page of his piece book. Even though there are plenty of blank pages, Changbin is’t sure if he wants to turn them. Not even with Chan. 

Chan’s kissing him again, determined, like he’s single-handedly gonna undo the damage wrought by a few dozen bad hookups. He acts like he’s gonna bring him, kicking and screaming, into heaven. 

Chan’s got his hand on his cock, but the touch of his rough palm against his bare skin isn’t what makes him throb. It’s the raspy whisper of Chan in his ear, “what have you thought about me doing to you?” 

There’s no question. He remembers the exact moment he became obsessed. They were out fucking around, throwing simple tags out at the skate park with Han. Changbin watched him, finger curled over a cap, and it’s never left his mind since. His fingers are the right combination of long, but thick. Chan's hands became like this symbol of Chan himself. Everything that he wanted, everything that he wanted to be, and the vessel for endless potential. “Finger me?” 

“I can do that.” 

“Ah—do you have lube?” 

“Of course?” Incredulity tinges Chan’s voice. 

“I’m just asking.” 

“You really think I’d be as bad as Cucumber Melon?” They reduce the people that they fuck down to the most simple of caricatures: Cucumber Melon, and Period Panties, and Pornstache. There’s an ugly part of his mind that wonders,  _ what would they call each other?  _

“Girls are different. They get wet.” Fuck. So, he sounds like he’s exactly thirteen again. 

Chan fumbles around in his bedside table drawer and tosses a half used bottle of lubricant and gold-wrapped condom onto the bed. 

“Yeah, I usually do pretty good with that.” Chan grins at him mischievously. “But even I need help if they let me stick it in their ass.” 

Now he  _ feels  _ like he’s thirteen again. With it comes all the sensitivity and maturity that he’s certain Chan wants in guiding his first homosexual experience. Changbin can only imagine how fucking stupid he must look right now, jaw hitting the floor, eyes as wide as dinner plates. 

“What, that should be good, right? I won't be completely clueless. Hopefully?” 

“Yeah.” 

As if Chan can see the cracks in his certainty, he assures him, “still need you to tell me what’s good.” Then he bites his lip and looks at Changbin like he’s the only person on earth. He kisses him on the cheek and nuzzles his neck until Changbin’s laughing, “boys are different, right?” 

“You’re really lucky that you’re cute.” Changbin parts his legs for Chan and settles back upon the bed. 

“And you’re lucky you’re hot. Never thought I’d have to beg to finger someone.” 

"I haven't heard you say please." 

"Changbin," Chan's staring at his cock and the place between his legs like he doesn't know what to do, but wants to do it all at once. "Please?" 

Changbin’s throat is dry, so it hurts when he croaks out a response, meek and defeated, "yeah."

Chan’s good at everything that he does. The only way to really tell that Chan might be deficient is when Chan betrays himself with nervous laughter. Chan muffles uncertainty into the muscle of Changbin’s thigh. Where someone who lacked experience might fumble around, poke and prod awkwardly for the sake of exploration, Chan makes it all seem purposeful. Chan’s thumbs, rough but cautious, part his cheeks. Soft caresses spread lube across his hole. The tentative pressure doesn’t feel like,  _ am I doing this right?  _ Instead, it's artfully disguised as,  _ I’m teasing you until you can’t take it anymore  _ as Chan finally manages to work a finger inside. 

Chan pumps his fingers in and out a few times experimentally. 

“I can take another.” 

“You’re really tight.” 

“M’good, fucked myself this morning.” Except it’s morning now and they haven’t slept yet. The glowing sunlight won’t let him forget that. “Yesterday, I guess. It’s still—” Heat rushes to his face because somehow Changbin has more reservations about confessing  _ this  _ than his actual feelings. Fuck it. “I do it a lot.” 

“Fuck, Changbin.” Chan swipes his rim with his index finger and applies pressure. Chan’s voice is low and possessive as he presses inside. “You have a dildo or something?” 

“Yeah. Ah—so stop worrying about trying to stretch me.” Chan’s scissoring his fingers inside of him in the weirdest kind of way, moving his fingers apart. “Like—” Changbin reaches for Chan’s hand, the one that rests on the crest of his hip. He moves Chan’s fingers into place, curling them into a crescent moon in demonstration. 

“Like this?” Chan curls his fingers  _ there. _ The liquid fire feeling that he spends so much time and energy trying to spark, Chan lights a match effortlessly and lets the heat burn just below his navel. 

Responses to questions like this are best spoken with the body. Changbin’s answer is brutally honest. Tightening around Chan’s digits, he arches into the touch. Chan repeats this motion, over and over until the fire melts him onto the mattress. His body relaxes against Chan’s fingers and he rocks up into Chan’s hand. 

“I wanna fuck you with it. Next time, before we go out and paint. After you blow me. So in the morning I can just stick it in.”

Chan’s words feel so real to Changbin. He can see it, quick and dirty out on the bridge as the sun rises.

It’s such a sharp contrast to the almost tender way that Chan touches him now, kissing the lobe of his ear and his neck in time with each caress of his fingertips. 

“I can do that?” Chan’s voice is softer now, almost pleading into the shell of his ear. It's almost like he wants confirmation of a next time and assurance that he hasn’t overstepped a boundary. He wants to make sure that his rig is still fastened tight so that there is no chance of falling. “Can I?” 

“Yeah.” But his cock twitches in time with the curl of Chan’s fingers  _ now.  _ The tip of his cock constantly oozes precum  _ now.  _ Chan’s dick presses into his thigh  _ now.  _ “But Chan, I swear to god if you don’t fuck me now I’m gonna cum—”

“I want you to cum.” 

“I could come when I’m on your dick.” 

Chan's fingers still inside of him. His devilish, determined expression softens. “Oh.” 

"So come on." 

Whatever fluidity that pooled between them evaporates. Chan fumbles for the condom, pinching the tip and rolling it down to the base. Changbin spills lube on his hands and Chan's thighs. Then there's the wordless question of  _ how.  _ Changbin wants the tight-laced familiarity of riding Chan into the mattress. Chan looks at him like he wants to do something really, really nasty, like make love to him in the missionary position. 

They arrive at a place that compromises Chan’s urgent need for depravity, and Changbin’s comfort in routine. Chan’s kneeling behind him, and Changbin’s kneeling too, almost sitting in his lap. But getting there isn’t easy. There’s rough stolen kisses, bitten lips, pinned wrists, and rolling away from playful capture. It’s a long slide all the way down, til he’s seated on Chan’s cock. The burning sensation in his thighs matches the burning sensation of Chan stretching him until he feels impossibly full. Chan twitches inside of him, and Changbin’s body responds by squeezing tight around him. 

The position they’re in doesn’t allow for fast, for rough, for fucking, but it’s brutal and demanding all the same. Shallow movements are the best that they can do, but Chan’s already buried so deep inside of him. Chan can’t slide far enough out of him for much of a reprieve, and so the addictive pressure of Chan hitting that spot is constant. Insistent. 

Soft moans are whispered like secrets, and the bodily sound of skin slapping against skin are shouted belligerently between the two of them. 

Holding his hips so tightly, Chan is certain to leave bruises on his skin. They’ll become quick tags on his body, will fade with time or get painted over again relatively quickly. Breathing heavily into the shell of his ear he whispers, “Fuck, I’m not gonna last long.” 

“I don’t need long.” 

“Want it to be good for you.” 

“It’s good, Chan.” 

Chan said he wasn’t gonna last long, but he acts like they have all the time in the world. He plays with his chest again, circling his nipples and pinching ever so slightly when they peak under his touch. Then, Chan’s meandering touches drift down his stomach to his cock. All the while he fucks into him, insistent.

Changbin’s earring clicks against Chan’s teeth as he sucks on the lobe of his ear. “Wanted you too. Fuck,” Chan husks into his ear. “God, you’re perfect.” 

“Wanted this so bad. Wanted you.” And Changbin thought he spilled his guts out at the bridge. Anything else would just be dry heaving. But in that moment, he says all kinds of crazy things to Chan that feel real. Insists, that they’re real. 

“Hey, you gonna pop?” 

“I’m gonna,” Changbin’s legs are shaking. He falls forward onto his hands and knees so Chan can fuck into him harder, faster. 

Chan’s touch changes. Chasing his own pleasure, he forgets everything that Changbin’s told him that he likes in favor of fisting his cock roughly. Changbin is no stranger to Chan’s rough and obligatory touch. But it’s clear that this time is a variation on a theme. Chan doesn’t touch him like this because he feels like it's the least that he can do, but because he feels like he needs to get Changbin there first. 

“Fuck fuck fuck,” He’s pulsing in Chan’s hand and tightening around his dick. The last coherent thought he has before his thoughts become sex static is that he hopes he can make Chan cum himself stupid. He deserves it, ‘cause Chan’s so fuckin’ good to him. 

Chan pulls out and pulls off the condom with a sharp snapping sound. Chan cums between his ass cheeks, and it feels filthy in the best kind of way. 

To Changbin, heaven feels a little sore. Heaven feels sticky. Chan cleans him up, and then heaven feels like a wet washcloth dragged across his back. 

* * *

“Ay, this better be good.” Changbin says, hand in his pocket, mean mugging no one in particular. He supposes that’s kind of the fucking point because he’s serving as lookout. “I’m pretty sure that was the last fucking train.” 

Chan responds with the roll-rattle-hiss of whatever paint he’s working with. “Nah man, they go ‘til one.” 

“On weeknights?” They live in a world where it’s perpetually Saturday night, but for some sad bastards, it’s just not the same. 

“Oh.” 

Okay, so they’ve got their whole crew, twelve gallons of paint, and God knows how many cans, and they’re supposed to meet up at the park. Add for the fact that everyone’s always late. Subtract the fact that they left late ‘cause Chan just  _ had  _ to blow him in the kitchen. Subtract the time it took him to throw up this tag. Carry the three. Oh fuck. They should’ve been there fifteen minutes ago.

“So was it worth it?” 

“I think so.” Chan touches his side, gesturing to him to look at the piece. If he hadn’t seen their names in those familiar wild letters a thousand times before, he wouldn’t have recognized CB and SpearB. Chan’s tag written backwards from the B in Changbin’s name, in the fluorescent glow of the street light. 

“It’s missing something.” Changbin takes the can from Chan. He sprays a simple red v, their code for a heart when they can’t risk their reps. “So what now?” 

“Kids wouldn’t start without us, right?”

“Better not.” 

They still don’t know what to call this, and they still don’t know what they’re doing. But it doesn’t feel hard to get to anymore. It doesn’t feel like he’s gonna fall. It’s here, on earth. It’s real. 

“Uh, run down the tracks and bomb the tunnel?” 

The sound of the marble in his can rattle-thunking echoes in the closed in space.

“Yeah.” 

  
  



End file.
